Three AM Comfort
by insaneprincess
Summary: "He's so gentle, she wants to cry. No one's ever looked after her like this. Hell, maybe she wouldn't be crazy if someone looked after her like this." When Lydia wakes from another nightmare, there's only one person she can think to turn to. StilesLydia.


A/n: Hey! So this is my first attempt at the Teen Wolf fandom. I adore Lydia and Stiles together, and there simply are not enough fics for these two. So here it is! Warning, there's a tiny bit of language in this. There's not a certain time in season 2 when this happens - before Party Guessed for sure. And the Sheriff is still the Sheriff in this. Anyways, enjoy! Reviews are deeply appreciated :)

* * *

She wakes up with dirt on her feet and blood under her nails and a choked sob in her throat.

_Not again._

The nightmares (if that's what they are, because they feel so real) are getting stronger and worse. She finds herself in the woods too many nights at three AM to feel safe. Or normal. Or like herself.

Tonight, it's not the woods, but it isn't much better.

She hasn't broken her mirror this time, but she's scratched the skin of her arms until they are red, raw, and bleeding. Maybe she was trying to get this nightmare – this monster, this dark feeling that haunts her perpetually – out from under her skin. Her once perfect French manicure is chipped, dirty, and bloody. Her feet are encrusted in dirt. Probably dirt from the woods. She was probably already out there tonight, and she's probably lucky to be in her bed. Or maybe the dirt's a hallucination. Hell, maybe the scratches are too, she can't tell anymore. She doesn't feel any pain, but it might be from how cold she is.

She swallows down the choking sobs that are begging to escape. She deserves to collapse on this bed and cry until this goes away. But it isn't going away. And despite the fact that she doesn't recognize the face in the mirror, she's trying to maintain a shred of Lydia Martin pride, which is slipping through her fingers like quicksand.

She pulls herself out of bed. Dirt spills onto her carpet. She bites back a scream. What now? Vacuum her room? Shower? Cower in the corner until dawn makes the demons go away?

She can't. She can't stay in this room, she needs out. She needs to run away to somewhere. But where? Who wants to take in the crazy girl at three AM? Not Allison, who is either asleep, having a 'sleepover' with Scott, or unavailable whenever Lydia needs her. Not Jackson, who retracts from any emotional conversation – or really, anything to do with her these days.

In fact, there's only one place she can think to go, and the idea repulses her for a moment. But she's weak, undeniably damaged, and she only knows one person who will open the door for her at this hour of night and care about anything she has to say.

She doesn't bother with the vacuum or shower, or even concealer for the frightening bags under her eyes. She just leaves before she can change her mind.

* * *

The sound of knocking wakes him up.

In fact, it wakes him up so thoroughly that he rolls off of the couch he was sleeping on in surprise. His gaze flickers to the front door, where his dad's briefcase and shoes are clearly not present. Stiles had fallen asleep on the couch again waiting for the Sheriff to come home but, as per usual, he'd most likely fallen asleep in his chair at the station. The recent murders were taking a toll on him.

Maybe, Stiles thinks groggily, the incessant pounding on his front door at 3:12 am, according to the clock above the TV, is simply because his father forgot his key, and has chosen to come home tonight.

So he pulls himself up off the couch, and forces himself to open the door, reminding himself that if the visitor was a werewolf or kanima, they likely wouldn't have bothered to knock.

And indeed, there's no beast outside his door. But he'd likely have been less shocked to see some supernatural creature than the sight he's currently facing.

Lydia Martin stands on his front porch, but a Lydia Martin he hardly recognizes. Her hair is wilder than he's ever seen it other than the way it had been after she'd been lost in the woods for two days. Her arms are bloodied with long scratches, and her feet are covered with dark soil. She's wearing a thin nightgown and no other clothing, not even shoes. She must have walked here, as there's no car parked anywhere near, and though she doesn't live far, it isn't exactly a common walk for the middle of the night. More than her questionable appearance or method of transportation, it is the look on Lydia's face that makes Stiles thoroughly speechless. None of the pride, confidence, or general self-assuredness that Stiles associates with the beautiful redhead is evident in her huge, glassy green eyes. Instead, her entire face screams fear, desperation, and exhaustion. Helplessness.

He's probably imagined Lydia Martin showing up at his doorstep in something as provocative as that nightgown over a hundred times. But his imagination held a sexy smirk and batting lashes – never huge frightened eyes, a girl on the verge of either tears or screams or a gruesome panic attack. He can't even think of anything other than protecting this scared, weak, desperate girl from whatever had pushed her into looking like this.

She simply stares at him for a long moment, as he gapes at her in silence. Finally, she gathers the courage to speak. Her voice is weak and shaky, but she forces the words out. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I just didn't know where else to go, and I didn't want to be alone."

Stiles' eyes are soft, his expression gentle. He doesn't know what to do in this situation, but he'll try his goddamn best, because fuck it all, whatever's making Lydia Martin turn into a scared, weak ghost is going to pay for it. "Lydia," he says gently. "It's going to be okay. Whatever it is. I promise."

She looks up at him with those luminous green eyes, and shakes her head. Stiles sighs, unsure of everything. "Do you want to come inside?" he says quietly.

Biting her lip, and warming her scratched arms, Lydia nods.

* * *

Stiles could honestly say he'd never been in any situation like this before.

He'd never in a million years expected to see Lydia Martin, in the flesh, on his doorstep, at any time of day, let alone in the middle of the night in a state of complete disarray and desperation. He does his best though, to handle it. He sits her down on the couch he'd been previously sleeping on, and ignores the thrill of seeing this girl in his house, in places he regularly spends time. She looks good on his couch, beyond her chaotic state. But she's freezing, probably from walking to his house, so he wraps her in blankets. He gathers iodine and bandages for her arms, and a warm, soapy cloth to wipe off her feet. And then he stands in the doorway to his family room for a solid three minutes, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do.

He's not good at looking after people. One of the only people he even cares about is Scott, whose problems involve putting himself in dangerous and potentially fatal positions, but never require comforting a beautiful crying girl. In fact, her slightly hysterical breathing reminds him a little of his own past panic attacks, which does not ease his nerves. He is not good at comforting people. He's meant for sarcastic comic relief, and he knows that's not possible. He can't understand why she'd turn to him in the midst of her panic, because he knows he isn't the right person for this.

But this is Lydia. And despite the fact that he doesn't think he's ever comforted someone in his life, he makes himself walk into that room and sit beside her. Because this is Lydia. And he'll do this for her, and her alone.

* * *

She's trying to regain any ounce of sanity she has left, but she's not sure that there is any.

There's a miniscule voice in her head from a time when she never walked anywhere without three-inch heels, when she never woke up with dirt and blood around her, when she didn't feel like a crazed mess all the time, that scoffs at coming to Stiles Stilinski, of all people, for help. That whispers that they were not meant to even talk, let alone turn to each other for emotional support. Stiles was not ever meant to be part of her life. Except. Except she is not that girl anymore. She wishes she could discover that mindless confidence she used to possess, but all she has left is a flimsy act that was wearing thin with every nightmare and episode of writing backwards on chalkboards. And maybe Stiles didn't fit with the girl whose bag and shoes matched and whose lipstick was never smeared, but she's never going to be able to be that girl again, and Stiles fits with the desperate, searching girl curled up in a comforter on his weathered couch. For this girl, Stiles was the first person she ran to for help – the only person she could think of to turn to.

"Hey."

His voice is only a murmur as he sits beside her. He passes her a rag, with which she begins to wash the dirt off of her feet. Then she feels his hand on her bloodied arm.

She flinches away immediately, not in pain, but in a fearful shock. She lives in a hyped up paranoia these days, and his touch surprised her. He looks at her in surprise, hands up in front of him, to proclaim his innocence, she supposes. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says quietly. "I just think we need to clean these cuts before we bandage them up. Okay?"

He waits for her nod before touching her again, gently. His hands are warm, and softer than she expected. He dabs the stinging iodine carefully. She wonders how many wounds he's cleaned before. She wonders if he touches everyone like this – softly, carefully, deliberately. She knows he's doing this to help her, but she thinks a tiny piece of him is relishing in touching her. Surprisingly, this calms her down a little. This is a Stiles that she is familiar with – his adoration is a constant, unchanging piece in her life. It isn't fair that the way he cares about her is a safety net for her, but she can't help it, not when she's this shaken up.

She promises herself that when she gets back to normal, she'll stop finding anything about Stiles Stilinski safe, comforting, _sweet_.

But part of her realizes that there might not be a time where gliding down the hallway, ignoring the people that have changed her, will ever be possible. Maybe she'll wear the makeup and the heels, but she'll only be able to paint the image of the girl of before, not be her.

She realizes that Stiles has covered her arms in gauze, and that her feet are clean. She realizes that he's eventually going to want to know why she's here, crying on his couch.

She also realizes that right now, he's just looking at her, stroking her hair gently, his eyes full of this warmth and dedication that half scares her and half makes her feel whole again.

His eyes are brown. Really brown. She doesn't normally like brown eyes, she's always thought they were boring. But his are fascinating – incredibly warm and gentle, with beautiful flecks of gold and green. She doesn't know how she hasn't really noticed them before now.

She's so caught in his eyes, she doesn't realize for a moment that that he's said something. She looks at him blankly for a moment, until he repeats himself.

"What happened to your arms?"

She looks down at the bandages. Does she want to tell him? It's why she came here. But she almost doesn't want to ruin the sweetness of this moment. This is a peaceful pause in her whirlwind world of nightmares and chaos and people thinking she's crazy. But then she looks at him again, and catches that look in his eyes. There's a reason she came to him. She doesn't think he'll judge.

So she shows him her nails in silence, the blood crusting her chipped manicure. His eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he just takes a piece of extra gauze, and begins to clean the blood from her nails. He's so gentle, she wants to cry.

No one's ever looked after her like this. Hell, maybe she wouldn't be crazy if someone looked after her like this.

His kindness is what makes her start talking.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles. "For showing up here in the middle of the night, and… I know what I look like right now. And I – I just didn't know where else to go. I couldn't stay where I was. And I guess… This is the only place I could think of coming." He looks like he wants to speak, but she's afraid she'll never get all the words out if she lets him, so she keeps going, her words blurring together in her hasty rambling. "It's just – Allison never has time for me anymore, and I mean, I get it, she's _in love_ or whatever, but we're supposed to be such good friends, and-and Jackson doesn't want anything to do with me. Which shouldn't surprise me, because I'm not sure he ever even liked me. But it still hurts a little, you know? And I guess I just woke up, really afraid. And I thought how you're always there for me, every time something's wrong. And how maybe you wouldn't judge me if I showed up like this on your front porch, and maybe it was a huge mistake, but you're the only person I could imagine turning to for help, and I mean, I never would have thought that a while ago, but I don't know what to do, I'm a complete wreck and –"

"Lydia," Stiles whispers, cutting her off. "Lydia."

She looks up at him, at his huge brown eyes, which are blazing with some kind of fierce warmth since her rambling. Slowly, as if to prevent frightening her, he wraps his arms around her. She can't remember the last time someone just held her. Not holding her for a moment before making out, as Jackson occasionally did, or hugging her for a minute in the hallway, as Allison would, looking in another direction or checking her phone. Honestly holding her, just because they wanted to, because she needed comfort, because it was genuinely sweet to be held.

The peace of being held by Stiles lingers in the silence for a moment, but it gives her the courage to speak the words she's been choking on for weeks. Her head's on his chest, and it's reassuring because she won't be able to see his eyes widen, or the look on his face that will confirm her insanity. She just has to say it, whether or not he gives her that look, because it makes what's been happening to her real. It makes it a solid, confirmable thing that she's said aloud. So she lets the words escape into his gray t-shirt.

"I think I'm going crazy," she whispers. She doesn't wait for him to reply. Instead, she focuses on the sound of his heartbeat under her cheek. "I have these horrible nightmares of a man. And sometimes I end up in the woods. And there's dirt in my bed and my mirror's broken and there's blood under my nails. But I don't just think they're nightmares – they happen in the middle of school. And – and I guess I'm having hallucinations, which makes me like… like a schizophrenic or something, right? Right?" Her voice is beginning to crack and shake, and she's trying not to cry again. "I don't know what's real anymore, and my mom doesn't know what to do, she just keeps giving me pills, and nothing's getting better, and I'm crazy Stiles. I'm fucking insane."

She's full-blown crying now, and she can't stop herself. She's soaking his shirt, and her breathing is getting hysterical. Vaguely she feels him rubbing circles on her back, and murmuring to her.

He gently pulls her back enough to face him, still in the cradle of his arms. Their faces are inches apart. She realizes, through her tears, that he doesn't have that look on his face, the one she expected. The one that's full of pity and concern for a crazy girl. He looks worried, but not like that. He looks remarkably calm and determined, and he gently pushes a strand of hair that's sticking to her tears away from her face. "Lydia," he whispers. "I believe you. And I don't think you're crazy."

She hiccups. "You don't?"

He smiles a tiny half-smile, wiping her tears away with his thumb. "No, I don't. You're Lydia Martin. You're the smartest, strongest person I know. If you're crazy, the rest of us are screwed."

Somehow, she's almost smiling. Her breathing has slowed. She feels calmer. Light-headed. But not hysterical. Not hopeless.

"Trust me," he says quietly. "I believe you. I think something's happening to you. But it's not your fault Lydia, okay? And in the morning, when you feel better, I swear to God, I'll help you figure out what it is, okay? I'm here for you, okay?"

She feels suddenly exhausted from all the crying, the walk here in the dark. It's probably close to four AM now. Suddenly, her mouth is talking without her consent. "Stiles," she whispers, "why the hell do you even like me?"

He gapes at her for a minute. She's still in his arms, their faces are inches apart. But slowly, he closes his mouth, and then his eyes for a long moment. She doesn't think he's going to answer. She already regrets the question.

"Because I know you, Lydia," he says quietly. "Because I've always known you're more than the girl who walked by me in four-inch heels everyday and pretended I didn't exist. I know that you're smart, strong, funny, and beautiful. I know you're a lot more like the trusting, kind, and incredibly strong girl who showed up on my doorstep tonight than any act you've been putting on for the rest of the school."

She stares at him for a moment in silence. She doesn't know how he knows all of this. How he believes this. But a little voice whispers that it's because he's been paying attention to her for years, when she has made it her personal task to not pay attention to him. She feels a surge of guilt. Why did she wait until now to turn to him? Hasn't she realized that he's always cared this much?

Hasn't she realized that there's a part of her that cares too? That turned to him first for a reason? That despite the way she's ignored him, she's always been aware of purposefully ignoring him? That he's always been on her radar?

She's so close to him. She's never been this close to him.

She knows he would never try anything tonight. She knows that she's an emotional wreck. She knows she's unstable. Maybe she'll blame it on that in the morning. But right now, she feels better than she has in ages. She feels whole – like there might not be nightmares or hallucinations or people who look at her out of the corner of their eyes because she's the crazy freak who writes backwards and takes naked hikes in the woods. She feels full and warm and perfectly okay.

And she kisses him.

Despite how she was already in the circle of his arms, and how close she already was, he clearly was not expecting this. For a few seconds, he's completely frozen. And then he seems to wake up. Slowly, he moves his lips with hers, in a small movement that makes her stomach flip. He pulls her closer. It isn't a heavy kiss – it's chaste but sweet. And there's still passion. She can feel it in him, the way he tangles one of his hands in her red curls as she tugs the strings of his unzipped hoodie to pull him closer.

After several burning moments, she pulls away for air, smiling to herself. His breathing is unsteady, his face flushed. She didn't think she'd have such an effect on him. Slowly his dumb-founded expression fades to a glorious smile. He doesn't ask her about what just happened, seeming to notice the exhaustion in the bags under her eyes. He plays with a single curl of hair.

"Will you stay here tonight?" he murmurs, hope in his voice.

She smiles, wiping away the last remnants of tear tracks. "Yes," she whispers. "If that's okay."

He grins. "It's way better than okay."

* * *

When he returns from grabbing extra pillows off his bed, Lydia's already asleep on the couch. He watches her for a moment, looking more peaceful than he's seen her in weeks. It's relieving to see her so tranquil, she needs some kind of calm.

Especially because he knows he has to tell her everything tomorrow. Werewolves, kanimas, and dead alphas are not his favourite conversation topics, and he's afraid of how she'll react. But he promised to help her, and he won't keep lying to her. He'd have told her tonight, but she didn't need to hear that in her state of hysteria.

He smiles to himself. Despite the pain of seeing Lydia in such fear and pain, the night had an ending he would probably relive for the rest of his life. Lydia Martin in his lap, kissing him, pulling him closer. He bit his lip to hide his smile.

Even if she woke up tomorrow, blaming it on her emotional state and completely regretting it, he was going to treasure it while he had it.

Slowly he approached the couch, not wanting to wake her. Gently, he propped the pillows under her head, smoothing her wild red curls. As he pulled away, she grabbed his hand. "Stay," she murmured. Her eyes opened for a moment, and she pulled herself up to a sitting position. "Stiles," she whispered. "Don't leave me."

He'd been in this situation before. But then, she'd been hyped up on pills and murmuring Jackson's name. Now she was lucid, and looking him in the eye and telling him she wanted him to stay.

So, his stomach full of butterflies, he lay himself down on the couch. She curled up beside him, her head on his chest, her legs tangled with his. He pulled the covers around them.

It was the most peaceful he'd felt with another person. Hell, it was the happiest he'd felt with another person.

As she drifted into sleep, clinging to his shirt, she whispered, "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

* * *

That night, she had no nightmares.


End file.
